


Cut

by charmedtomeetyou



Series: Jimmy Eat World [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:57:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4604142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmedtomeetyou/pseuds/charmedtomeetyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian Jones meets Emma Swan at a bar and falls deeply in love, but an injury in the Navy and his subsequent fame forever changes their lives. Based on the song "Cut" by Jimmy Eat World.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, this is ANGST. Sad, sad, sad. Don't say I didn't warn you.

**You came in / Yeah, you happened to me**

It all started because he was just so _hot_. Yeah, that might sound shallow, but if Emma Swan was anything, it was _honest_. And this guy – dark, disheveled hair, deep blue eyes, a smirk that could charm the literal pants off the goddamn Queen of England, the perfect amount of scruff that would feel so good against her skin – this guy was gorgeous and tempting and basically the actual representation of just about any fantasy she’d conjured up in her twelve years or so of dating.

So when he looked at her and winked, she was just _done_. Obviously she was going to go home with him – who would say no to _that_? But, of course, she had no fucking clue what she was in for.

She’d smiled back at him, so of course he sauntered over to her – _swaggered_ to her… was swaggered a word? Whatever, he walked over to her with _sex_ in the gentle swing of his hips and he was already undressing her with his eyes, and the complete _practiced_ nature of his little performance should throw up some red flags, should _disgust_ her that she’s nothing more than another in a long line, but she was _curious_ what that tongue darting out to lick his lips could do against her flesh. So she plastered on her best _unimpressed_ face and promised to make him work for it – all the while knowing she was good as his already.

And then a crazy thing happened.

He wasn’t actually the dirty manwhore callous jerk she assumed he was going to be. No, he was actually quite a gentleman and an actual _human_ and while, yes, his face remained one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen and that tongue still made her think things that caused a slight blush over her pale features sporadically, she found she was far more captivated by what was beneath the bravado.

“Evening, lass. Might I offer you a refill on that beverage you’ve got there?” He’d said, invading her space and brushing his hand over her hip. _Of course he had a fucking English accent_.

“Really? That’s your play? I took you to be a bit smoother than that, pirate.” She shrank back from his touch, quirking her eyebrow at him and smirking.

“Pirate? Why, love, you wound me! Though I do enjoy some pillaging and plundering.”

Emma rolled her eyes but then downed the rest of her drink and slid it toward him.

“Go for it, buddy. But cut the shit. I’m not an idiot and I’m not falling for your little act. Talk to me like a person or hit the road.”

“ _Hit the road_? Who even says that anymore?” His persona broke immediately, his eyes softening as he let out a genuine laugh.

She couldn’t help but laugh with him. It was infectious (and she was slightly intoxicated). “Emma Swan says that, thank you very much.” She tilted her chin up with pride. “Which is me. By the way.”

He’d motioned to the bartender to refill her drink before extending his hand. “ _Swan_. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance. I’m Killian Jones.”

And that’s when she really _really_ found out how attractive he was – no faking necessary.

Over their first drink together, he apologized for the first impression – he found that women were often more a fan of the _rake_ than the man, and he’d learned to use his god given attractiveness to his advantage.

Over their second drink she shared her distaste for clubs in general, but admitted that it was far superior to meeting people in more genuine settings where you often found yourself on a fast track to heartbreak.

“But places like here, you can just shut up and dance, right, love?”

“Exactly,” she said, clinking her glass with his.

He took her hand and led her toward the DJ and they danced, almost chastely at first, his hands entwined with hers but their torsos never meeting. By the second song, she got brave (or sexually frustrated) and turned in his arms, grinding her ass against him to the thumping rhythm of the song. She heard him grunt a little in surprise, but he gave back as good as he was getting, running his hands over her waist and hips as they swayed.

By the end of the third song, he leaned against her back, his lips at her ear, brushing against the shell gently as he spoke. “Care for an adventure, love?”

She turned to meet his eyes and agreed with a smile – it was clear he was looking for privacy for the purpose of _conversation_ rather than the other thing, and she was surprisingly OK with it.

He motioned for her to wait while he grabbed them more drinks and then led her by the elbow to a stairwell at the corner of the bar. She was wary at first – she really wasn’t looking to get arrested or something (her dad _was_ a sheriff, after all), but he giggled a bit and reassured her. “Lass, I know the owner. This is an entirely permitted adventure.”

They climbed to the roof and from up there the tiny town below didn’t seem so tiny – it was as if it sprawled on forever, the streetlights making patterns like constellations on the Earth.

“Pretty impressive, right?” Killian asked, plopping down on a rickety old lawn chair positioned at the edge of the rooftop.

“I thought I told you to quit with the player routine? This seems like a _move_ to me.”

“Darling, if all I wanted was to take you to bed, or to a bathroom stall for that matter, I would have either done so already if you agreed or I would have moved on to someone else if you didn’t. I merely wanted to chat with you in a quieter place. It certainly helps that it’s beautiful here, but that was a happy side effect.”

He ran his hands through his hair in something like nervousness and Emma realized he might actually _like_ her and she might actually _like_ him and she wanted terribly to just run far, _far_ away, but with the sparkling lights and his sparkling smile and the warmth of the alcohol pulsing through her body and the hope of _maybe happily ever after isn’t the world’s biggest lie_ , she made the life-altering decision to sit down next to him and _talk_.

She told him about being an orphan ( _it wasn’t like Annie, I promise_ ) and he told her about his brother who passed away while deployed ( _he was a Captain, just like I am now_ ). He talked about how he almost quit the Navy after his brother was killed, but then he decided that Liam would want him to keep going, to find his full potential and all that fluffy stuff.

Killian was so proud of his job. He seemed to truly _love_ it, being a Captain and carrying out missions and doing _good_.

Emma explained that her life wasn’t quite so accomplished, that the most good she ever did was capturing bail jumpers. But Killian wasn’t having her _belittling herself_ , reaching out his hand to entwine with hers. “You matter, Emma. You’re putting scumbags behind bars again. And that’s a good thing. Plus, you know, you’re certainly bringing light to _my_ night. So you matter to _me_ , anyway.”

She almost kissed him then, but she could feel tears prickling at her eyes and didn’t want their first kiss to taste like saltwater, despite his love for the sea.

It wasn’t long after that when he told her about Milah, his first love. She’d left her abusive husband – taken her son Bae along with her – and they’d met Killian when they were seated next to him at dinner one night when he was on shore leave. They were together a few years when Milah died suddenly (a heart attack), and though her son was technically in the custody of his grandparents, Killian often took him for weekends when he was home.

The pain in his eyes when he spoke of Bae ( _I’m sorry, Killian, but who the hell names their kid Bae?_ she’d said to break the tension) was apparent, and she couldn’t handle watching that beautiful, sweet, loving face be so broken.

So she kissed him.

It was a sweet brush of lips at first, but he responded with a passion she should have anticipated, grasping her waist and pulling her off her chair and into his lap. He sucked her top lip into his mouth, running his tongue along the lower one, and she opened for him eagerly, her heart fluttering madly as he claimed her mouth as his.

_Pillaging and plundering_ was right.

She raked her fingers through his hair and he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, brushing their noses together as they broke apart for air. She pressed her forehead against his, heart still hammering in her chest because this man – _god_ , he was just the most perfect being she’d ever seen, ever even _heard of_. Kind, sweet, beautiful, compassionate, and, of course, such a fantastic kisser she could hardly remember what fucking year it was.

Killian ran his fingers down her long hair and captured her lips again with his own, their tongues stroking against one another lazily for minutes or hours – who the hell even knew anymore – before Emma finally pulled back, still firmly in his lap but her face a foot or so from his so she might actually be able to form coherent sentences.

“You know, I’m good as yours already, right?” was all she could manage.

“As I am _yours_ ,” he responded, lifting her hand and placing a kiss against her knuckles.

She went home with him that night, all right, but when she slinked out of her curve-hugging dress, she promptly replaced it with a t-shirt of his and a pair of baggy sweatpants ( _god, the smell of him – she was drunker on that than on the rum_ ), curling against him in his large bed and having the best sleep of her entire life.

 

She awoke to his arms around her waist and his nose against her neck and her stomach dropped into her toes because she knew this was how she wanted to wake up every single day for the rest of her entire life and holy _shit_ how scary was that? She’d gone to the bar to unwind, maybe to have a quick fuck, and here she was ten hours later: three-quarters of the way in love with a half pirate/ half prince she barely fucking _knew_ but it was like her _soul_ knew him or some fairy tale shit like that.

He stirred in his sleep, wrapping his arm tighter around her and further entwining their legs and she knew.

_This was it._

 

**I made it / and now there’s no turning back**

He’d been in a blissful, wonderful, perfect relationship with the love of his life for three months now.

Aye, he said _love of his life_ and he knew it and _she_ knew it and they agreed that it was crazy and insane and shit like this never happened in real life, but it was only one week after they’d met that they professed their love and that was just _fine_ with him.

He was nothing but honest, after all.

Killian Jones and Emma Swan fell into a comfortable rhythm of _together every single second they could manage_ for three whole months before he was deployed again.

They’d spent afternoons on his sailboat with Bae. They’d taken a cooking class (and drank all the wine that was meant for the sauce… _oops_ ). They’d watched four entire series on Netflix, wrapped up on his couch eating popcorn and Red Hots and sipping hot cocoa with cinnamon. They’d gone hiking and canoeing and jogging and only ended up in the hospital once when Emma sprained an ankle tripping over a root on the cross country trail. And, of course, they’d fucked on every surface in his house and her house and several semi-public places he wasn’t proud of ( _yes he was_ ) and therefore wouldn’t disclose ( _advice: don’t eat at the back table in Granny’s; they’d christened it last week_ ).

He’d never been so happy in his life. Which was not to be offensive to the memory of his dear Milah, of course – he’d loved her and her son with a unique fierceness not even touched by his Emma ( _still_ loved them both, in fact) – but there was still something about he and Milah that didn’t quite _fit_. He somehow felt _complete_ now, ever since the moment he swaggered over to the beautiful blonde in that bar and was told to cut his shit.

But now he was getting deployed, and he had no idea how to handle this.

The morning after he’d gotten the news, he lay in bed, Emma draped half on top of him, one of her legs wedged between his and her bare breasts pressed against his belly.

She toyed with the hair at his chest as her still-sleepy eyes finally opened to meet his. “We’re going to be fine, Killian. It’s only six months. I know we’ve never even been apart for six _days_ yet since meeting each other, but maybe that’s better! We’ve soaked up every single moment together we could. So just keep yourself alive while you’re gone and promise you’ll come back to me and we’ll still go on and live happily ever after.”

“I’ve told you, love, I’m a survivor.”

“ _Good_. So am I. So we’ll write or Skype or text or call or whatever you Navy men are allowed, and I’ll be right here waiting for you when you come back.”

She leaned up and kissed him and the kiss turned to light petting which turned to full-on groping which led to moaning and panting and a few orgasms and eventually the two of them were sprawled out on the floor, Emma lamenting the carpet burns that were going to be visible on her knees for days to come.

“How exactly did we end up leaving the bed?” she asked when she caught her breath again.

“Not a clue, Swan.”

They laughed until their abs hurt and their stomachs growled and they went to make breakfast like respectable people and not sex-craved animals (and maybe they had sex against the counter after the pancakes were all gone, but, you know, maybe they didn’t).

He told her to stay home the day he was shipping out (he was leaving _so_ very early), but of course she didn’t listen. She and Bae met him at the port as the sun was barely cracking over the water. Bae presented him with a set of photos (some of them with Milah, others of them with Emma), and Emma gave him a stack of letters, each labeled with an instruction about when to read.

“They’re not dirty and they’re not particularly sappy, but they’re _me_ , anyway.”

His perfect _Swan_. She knew he’d just miss her voice, her thoughts. They didn’t need much from each other to feel safe and loved in the world, and that was probably the best thing about them.

“I’m still yours, you know,” she whispered as she gave him his last hug.

He kissed her cheek, letting his lips linger as he responded, “As I’m yours. I love you, Emma.”

“Love you, _Captain_.”

“God, guys, get a room,” Bae muttered as Killian broke away from Emma to hug the lad. He hated to leave him, but Bae had wonderful grandparents and Emma would spend time with him, too.

It was an odd little family he had, but he loved it. And he’d come home to it no matter what. Because he was a survivor and especially because he had something to survive for.

 

And he _did_ survive. Technically.

But he certainly didn’t return as _whole_ as when he left.

Emma was the strangest combination of proud and _pissed_ when he returned. She would hold onto his right hand – his _only_ hand, now – and never, ever let go, no matter which doctor they were seeing, no matter which reporter was asking him questions. His Swan steadfastly refused to leave his side.

She also steadfastly refused to _speak_ with him – at least at first.

Finally one evening, alone in his room at the VA, he snapped, yanking his hand roughly out of hers when she wouldn’t answer him about how she was feeling.

“That’s it, Emma! There will be no more of this ridiculous cold shoulder you’re giving me. If you don’t want to talk to me, then _leave_. I can’t take one more minute of being with you while you’re not actually _with_ me. I’m _sorry_ I got hurt. But I kept my promise. I _survived_.”

“ _Barely_!” she screamed, certainly loud enough for the nosy nurses at their station down the hall to hear. And despite her hurt eyes and harsh tone and the fact that he was certainly in for a tongue-lashing, he was absolutely heart-skippingly elated that she was looking him in the face and speaking to him again.

“I’m _so_ happy you’re back. You _know_ I won’t live without you. But you’ve got to go and be the hero and put yourself in danger. Did you even think about me? When you decided to jump toward that bomb, did it cross your mind you might be leaving me?” Emma had been crying on and off since he returned, but mostly she’d go to the bathroom or the waiting room or even just turn her head so he wouldn’t see, so he couldn’t offer comfort or support. But now she was openly sobbing and he wished more than anything that he could get out of his bed and go comfort her.

But she was also frustrating him to Hell and back. _How could she be so stupid to think he wasn’t worried about her_?

“Of course I was thinking about you. I’m _always_ fucking thinking about you!” He screamed back, reaching out toward her. “For God’s sake, Emma, will you get your ass over here so I can hold you?”

She stumbled toward him and crawled up into his bed, tucking herself into his right side and grasping his hospital gown tightly.

“I know you’re a hero and I met the women who _didn’t_ lose their husbands because of _you_. But _I_ almost lost you and I’m not all right with it. I am a strong, independent human being who is capable of kicking ass and handling myself and I have a great purpose in this world beyond being your girlfriend – I know all of these things – but faced with the thought of not being with you, I just _melt_ , OK? And not in the good way. Just… please – please don’t leave me.”

Her face was tucked into his neck and she placed little kisses on every inch of skin she could reach.

“I’m still yours, love,” he responded, threading his remaining fingers through hers.

“And I’m yours.”

It all got easier once she had decided to stop ignoring him. The doctor visits, the rehab, the steady waning off pain medication – he could endure all of it with her support, her smile, her _love_.

And, of course, she brought Bae in to visit him. Just once, since it was far away, but he was so happy to see the lad that he forgot about some wires and ripped out an IV trying to hug him. The nurses lectured him and he looked properly chagrined, but he was happy to be _home_ , handless and admitted to the VA or not.

But it was a funny thing, his recovery. He was so busy with the logistics and his health and his close relationships that he didn’t realize his little moment of heroism wasn’t so _little_.

In fact, he was somewhat _famous_ once the press got ahold of the story.

“It’s because of your face,” the Navy’s PR woman, Regina, said very bluntly. “You did a heroic thing and you’re gorgeous, so now you’re going to get a lot of attention.”

Emma held his hand more tightly, seeming to anticipate the _but_ clause that was coming (Killian knew it was coming, too).

Regina continued. “And not all of it will be positive. So we’re going to need to be proactive here. We need you doing interviews. We need you holding puppies. We need you joking with Matt Lauer about, I don’t know, _Captain Hook_ or something. We need to control this message or we’re going to have a mess on our hands.”  
Emma spoke up before Killian could. “What do you mean, _control the message_? He did a heroic thing. He did his duty. He saved people. It’s done. What more is there?” Emma flushed with anger, and looked down into his eyes with shame. She didn’t like speaking for him, but her fierce protectiveness had led her to similar actions several times in the last few weeks. Killian had assured her that he found it sweet and not overbearing, but she still felt bad about it every time ( _silly, wonderful woman_ ).

“People will have opinions, Miss Swan. They’ll even have opinions about _you_ and if you don’t lighten up a little, they’re not going to be great ones. You see, dear, popularity breeds contempt. At first the pieces about your boyfriend will be fluffy and happy and heroic and wonderful. But then come the trolls and the bitter people and suddenly he was _responsible_ for the bomb instead of the one who saved people from it. Suddenly he _murdered_ his former girlfriend and got away with it, instead of losing her to a tragic heart failure. We need to keep the positive or this is going to be a mess for you. Which is a mess for the Navy.”

Regina continued to explain the way this all could go, but Killian couldn’t focus. He was a _part_ of the Navy and he certainly was proud of his contributions, but the whole point of being _one soldier_ in a grand army was that your individual actions were part of something larger. You got to be faceless, just a man carrying out his duty to the country he’d sworn to protect (despite not being born there). But the way Regina was talking, he was anything but faceless – anything but anonymous. He couldn’t _be_ the Navy. That was too much pressure and he just… couldn’t.

Emma squeezed his hand, sending his thoughts. “We’ll be fine,” she whispered.

“I love you,” he whispered back.

 

**If it’s your name in lights**

She’d never been so angry in her life when she got the call that Killian was injured. He had fucking _promised_. But once he was back and healing and she could hold him in her arms, her anger faded to nothing but happiness and _pride_ for being the girlfriend of such a brave, wonderful man. A man who _did,_ in the end, keep his promise to survive.

But then the fame happened.

Regina wasn’t fucking kidding. Killian’s name was everywhere. His story was everywhere. They made shirts with his face on them, for God’s sake. It was insane and just _so much to deal with_.

Killian was struggling enough with trying to complete all his usual tasks sans his left hand. He was thankful it hadn’t been his dominant hand (and, in fact, he’d thought of that when he grasped the thing, that there was going to be damage and he’d better use his _left_ ). But two nights after she brought him home from the hospital he broke down crying – seemingly without reason.

Once he calmed down enough to speak, he explained it was a commercial on TV that sparked it.

“I’m sorry, Swan,” he choked out. “The _Jared_ commercial got me. I hope – I mean I planned that, we, you know, eventually – I imagined us marrying someday. And now I – well I don’t have a left hand for a ring anymore.” He took her left hand in his right, rubbing along her ring finger longingly.

“Oh, as if that matters, Killian. I’m about as married to you as they come already and we’ve got no rings. If the time comes… well, we’ll think of something much more special, don’t you think?

She hadn’t spent a single night at her own house in the last month, so she gave it up, moving all of her things into his house two weeks after he was released from the hospital.

“I’m sorry I can’t help carry the bags, love, but I’m happy that you’re here,” he’d said, wiping sweat from her brow as she lugged the last of her things into his spare room.

But she never really got a chance to unpack. As soon as Killian was fit for movement, Regina had them going on a world freaking tour, bouncing from city to city doing talk show after talk show to explain his heroics.

Here was the unedited truth of the event: they were at port in an area they mostly considered safe, so the soldiers weren’t necessarily _on guard_. But then there was a disturbance – some insurgents were nearby – and a bomb was thrown onto the ship’s deck. Killian and about twelve other men were just feet away from it and would surely be obliterated had it gone off on the ground. So Killian dove for it, picking it up with his left hand and throwing it into the ocean ( _sorry, fish_ , he’d said later while under the influence of many different painkillers). The bomb had started to detonate as he tossed it, and his left hand was severely injured to the point that he had a greater chance of functionality if it were completely amputated.

But on the talk shows, they had to embellish every detail. The relationship statuses of the men near Killian. What they’d been talking about. The tragic nature that the insurgents were often young – young like Bae, some even pointed out, knowing that he kept a close relationship with the son of his late girlfriend.

And _Emma_. She was a big topic, too. Had he been thinking about her? How would it have felt if she’d lost him? What was their relationship like? Which side of the bed did he prefer? These were all questions that had answers. _Private answers_. But people were nosy and relentless. One sorry excuse for a reporter seriously asked what Killian’s favorite sexual position was and if it had changed after the accident. Emma’s actual response had been _excuse me, bitch_ but Regina quickly stepped in and politely requested they go over the acceptable topic list once again and Emma and Killian had to take a breather in the garden outside the studio.

“Some of these people just go too far, Killian.” Emma was frustrated. Frustrated at the world, at people’s invasiveness. She was never frustrated _at_ Killian, but sometimes it just happened to come out _toward_ him.

“I’m sorry, Emma, but we know how to handle these things. Smile and change the subject – don’t _snap_. That little comment will probably be a reaction gif on tumblr by tonight!”

“You know what, I just don’t _fucking_ care, OK. How are you OK with this? You spend far more time talking about your favorite ice cream than you talk about your Naval service. You’re a _hero_ , Killian. You’re _my_ hero, but you’re a bunch of other people’s, too. You saved _lives_. And they’ve turned you into _Captain America_ (and not in the good way) – I’m surprised there isn’t an actual chorus line of scantily clad dancers behind you during these interviews! You’re worth so much more than this. We’ve sacrificed so much, and all for what, so you can be the fluff piece at the end of the news, so Buzzfeed can do more articles like “17 Facts You Didn’t Know About That Hot Naval Captain.”

Killian’s face softened and he strode toward her, gathering both her hands in his only, pulling them toward his heart. “I love you, Emma. And you remember what Regina said. We’re just trying to avoid the nasty. I never meant to put you in this situation, but for right now, it’s our new normal. This is just what we have to deal with. And I need you by my side. Can you manage that?”

“You know I’m yours,” she replied, somewhat offended that it was even a question

“As I am yours.”

 

But it became increasingly clear that he was _not_ hers. He was _everyone’s_. He was the _Captain Sex_ , he was _Killy Bear_ , he was _McFuckable_. Regina warned Emma to steer clear of Yahoo and Twitter and Tumblr and basically any kind of news or social media outlet, but it was impossible to ignore. And at first Killian had been annoyed with it all, wishing for more time alone with his girl, just watching Netflix and eating pizza and having sex until dawn.

But slowly he became more OK with all the appearances. He said yes to more interviews. He co-hosted the View and sat on the 9am panel on the Today Show and did a lip sync battle with _actual_ Captain America on Jimmy Fallon. And Emma watched it all, participated in it, tried her best to smile through it, but it was clear her life wasn’t hers anymore, her Captain wasn’t hers, and she couldn’t figure out how to deal.

It sometimes boiled over when they got home (AKA whichever hotel they were at) at night. “Well what’s the alternative, Emma, that I suffer even more? That _you_ suffer even more? That I try to avoid the paparazzi just to have them chase us down and kill you in a car wreck? These are our circumstances and we just have to make the best of them. It’ll die down. It will all calm down eventually and then it’ll just be you and me and we’ll live happily ever after like we were always going to. I love you more than anything.”

“I love you, too.” She smiled sadly and kissed his cheek, turning away from him to go to sleep.

But she didn’t sleep. She thought of his potential, how he belonged somewhere that he could really make an influence (by more than his pretty face). And then she thought of her _own_ potential. That thing she’d feared – losing herself because she lost him – he might not have died, but it still came _true_. She’d quit her job to go off with him. She’d given up her house. And it had all amounted to her being nothing more than the cheerily supportive girlfriend the cameras cut to when he was doing something silly on _Live with Kelly & Michael_.

And she was _happy_ that he got to do such things, that he got to have fun and be free and show the whole world his sparkling personality.

But he was worth so much more.

(And Emma was, too.)

 

**There’s always / some baggage you’ve got to check**

“I just want to go home!” Killian grunted, preparing for his third interview of the day. It had been _months_ since the explosion and his fame had turned into quite a different thing – instead of being the hero of an actual military operation, he became the smiling face of the military itself. Regina was grooming him to make the military look _less destructive_ , to keep the focus off those with PTSD and other “scarier” injuries. He’d become the anecdote, the proof that military service didn’t fuck you up beyond all recognition. Not all the time, anyway.

But it was a _lie_.

He was losing Emma. He could tell. She’d smile and cuddle up into him and hold his hand tight on the plane rides and she’d kiss him sweetly on the lips before she fell asleep. But she was sad. Always sad. Her eyes were empty and her heart seemed broken, despite his constant presence beside her.

He was losing her because he was losing _himself_. He’d lip synced with Chris fucking Evans, for god’s sake, and yet he was still _miserable_ because everything about his life was _fake_. He’d always known how to be charming, how to use his face to get his way. He’d even told Emma from the very beginning that was how he kept his heart safe – by putting on the mask of the player. And he’d let that go _because of her_.

And now here he was, surrounded by her at every moment and yet still stuck with the mask on for the entire fucking world to see. He grabbed that bomb to save himself, to save his men – not so he could spend three hours filming a _three_ _minute_ segment of Inside Edition.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” Emma hugged him to her chest, petting his hair and kissing his forehead, as if to assure him everything would be all right.

But he knew it wouldn’t. There wasn’t any way out of this madness he’d stumbled into – he’d become a celebrity, _famous for being famous_ rather than being famous for something actually fucking useful in the world. And Emma had become nothing but his sidekick (to the public) – known only for her beautiful smile rather than her beautiful soul. And it was all his fault.

He should have just dived in the water with the bloody bomb.

He said as much to Emma one evening, which led to her crying for three hours about how she couldn’t lose him, _couldn’t lose him_ , and he knew he should comfort her, should assure her that they would be OK, that she would _never_ lose him.

But he had that whole honesty thing, so he simply said, “you already have, my love.”

  
It was about a month after that when things seemed to die down a bit. He wasn’t offered as many appearances, so he didn’t feel pressured to say yes as much. He and Emma were back at home for much longer stretches of time, and she’d started to work a bit more contracting for the local police department. He’d been taken off active duty, obviously, but they’d found some work for him to do in a desk job capacity, and he found that he appreciated being _useful_ for more than just well-timed jokes and his deep blue eyes.

But the lull was too good to be true.

He was hardly settled in his job when everything Regina warned of finally came to pass. First there was the article about his brother’s naval service, suggesting Liam had been reckless and had caused the deaths of other soldiers because he was drunk and out of line. Then there was the opinion piece about how Killian “just wanted attention” and how the only place he belonged was “in the bottom two on _Dancing with the Stars_.” And – probably the nail in the coffin of his happiness – the articles claiming he’d had dozens of affairs with his adoring fans, all behind the back of his “naïve princess of a girlfriend.” Those articles featured “damning evidence” – pictures of him smirking and winking and flirting with women of all sorts. Of course Emma had been there through all of that – he’d watched her cringe at every turn – but he was _told_ to be charming and sweet and downright _flirty_ and so that’s what he did.

But after a few of those articles had surfaced, the police department had started cutting down on the amount of cases they were using Emma on, stating that she was just “too recognizable” and “drew the wrong kind of attention.”

They basically fired her or she basically quit and that night she refused to even _sleep_ in his bed, piling herself in a ball of blankets in the spare room instead of so much as staying on the couch.

He was losing himself. He was losing her.

He’d all but lost Bae – his grandparents stating that Killian’s influence couldn’t be a good one with the type of people he was often around. He tried to explain that he was the same person offscreen as he always was, that he and Emma would take Bae sailing just like they had before this whole mess – but then Entertainment Weekly would find out about it and ask for photos and Milah’s parents had just had _enough_ of their grandson being forced into the spotlight.

And Killian had to understand.

His life was not his own anymore – and neither were the lives of those around him.

 

**Yes, I loved you, boy**

It had been nearly a year since he’d almost died when she realized that it wasn’t going to get better.

She loved him. Fiercely. With every single fiber of her heart and soul.

He was her soulmate. He was her everything.

But her love for him had reduced her to being _nothing_ for herself.

After the run of bad press, Killian had to jump back on the fluff circuit, talking more about growing up with his brother and about the other good things he did with the Navy. But again it mostly turned into playing golf with reporters and anchors, joking about other TV shows, weighing his opinion on things that had absolutely nothing to do with the things that made him _great_.

( _He really was great_.)

And they had to do a _thousand_ different interviews with Emma, proving that she loved him, that she knew he was faithful, that he was a great boyfriend and she was a perfect girlfriend. They dug a little into her past and found some sad skeletons, but they worked through them (on the air, of course) and they made sure to show her smiling brightly, staring lovingly into his eyes at every chance they could.

But it wasn’t _real_.

Reality was a bitch. Reality had ruined what seemed like her only chance at happiness. Reality had led to her standing in their living room, suitcase packed, crying as hard as the day he was flown to the VA with a mangled left hand and bruises on half his body.

(The bruises on her heart had never faded.)

“I’m sorry, Killian,” she whimpered through sobs and fat tears streaming down her cheeks. “I just can’t do this anymore.”

They were still in the same room and she already missed him. She’d _been_ missing him for months – with him right in front of her the whole time.

Maybe _missing him_ would fade if she were actually _gone_. Maybe she could forget what they were and how her soul had thought it found its missing puzzle piece before the world stepped in and fucked it all up.

Maybe she could settle for second best, somewhere out there in the world – maybe she had another adventure in her heart that would shine bright enough to cast this whole mess into a deep, dark shadow she wouldn’t have to face day after day after day.

Maybe she would find _herself_ again.

She was a survivor, but she couldn’t survive _this_ : looking into the eyes of her almost-happy-ending and seeing pain and hurt and so many other bad things instead of seeing his love for her.

So she had to _go_.

His expression shifted slightly, from _carefully blank_ to _slightly nauseated_ as her words registered in his head.

(He wasn’t hers anymore, so she had to stop being _his_.)

He didn’t reply.

So she turned and walked away.

And refused to look back.

( _I’m not cut for this no more._ )


End file.
